


Solicitude

by quarantinejeanine



Category: The Story of Tracy Beaker & Tracy Beaker Returns (TV)
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, Comedy, Doctors & Physicians, Drama, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Foster Care, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, M/M, Mild Language, Other, Panic Attacks, Poor Life Choices, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Questioning, Rating: M, School, Tracy Beaker - Freeform, Wealth, Work In Progress, personal work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarantinejeanine/pseuds/quarantinejeanine
Summary: Ironwood has always been a strange place; everyone is black or white, there’s no grey area. The noise is particularly bothering, so when budget cuts force the group to move down to Newcastle within a week, they don’t have the time to re-home all the residents. Elm tree house is worlds away from what they’re used to, that leaves one question; what will occur?(This is partly a joke. Sort of.)
Kudos: 5





	1. Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironwood has always been a strange place; everyone is black or white, there’s no grey area. The noise is particularly bothering, so when budget cuts force the group to move down to Newcastle within a week, they don’t have the time to re-home all the residents. Elm tree house is worlds away from what they’re used to, that leaves one question; what will occur?
> 
> (This is partly a joke. Sort of.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : Welcome to the first chapter!

Residents of Ironwood poured out the coach, most doing so gladly after the long journey. The smell of gas filled the air, the engine was clearly dirty, though the driver ignored it as if pollution wasn’t already an overlooked issue. The air was cold, crisp, the chilling breeze catching your throat as you took a breath. Of course this was only expected, it was August in Newcastle, god dammit. 

“Well shit!” Blare exclaimed with a soft chuckle, her lips curling into a weak smirk, curiously looking up at the place we’d all soon call home. 

She was the definition of a punk rocker; She was one of the ones who wouldn’t in a lifetime allow society and media to dictate who the fuck they are. Why? Because they can choose to take advantage of a functioning brain whilst they still maintain theirs, and you better know they’ll use it to maintain a state of their own individuality. To anyone who argues there’s no such thing as individuals, because ‘everything has been done before’, they’re contradicting themselves, because the act of expressing one's own opinions, which is evidently possible if you’re able to speak, involves being an individual. A self minded influential individual. One who will stand up for their beliefs, human rights. When they try to argue that? They can get a fucking dictionary. Indeed it is possible for one to claim to be a punk rocker and actually be one. If it were all about who’s phony or genuine, it wouldn’t be punk rock- rather something else. Nobody can make you be like that or not. That’d be ridiculous. Sure, I could inform you that you’re not right at this very moment, but if you were theoretically going to let that get to you, I ask you the question once more. 

You choose.

Punk rock is allowing yourself to live it up whilst you’re still able to, to not let yourself down. For example, if you listen to claimed punk bands and contemplate the lyrics, you’ll most likely begin to understand where I’m coming from. 

Of course, if you’re not smart you should start with something more productive in the first place, contemplate life, the meaning, the definition, a definitive answer to your being. 

This is exactly who Blare Adler was; Strands of dirty blonde hair escaped her already messy mullet by the hands of the soft wind, despite all the hairspray she used in the earlier hours of the morning, revealing the softly shaven sides underneath. Her bright blue turquoise eyes radiated a sense of calmness, curiosity, chaos, all at once. She dragged the heel of her dark platforms across the driveway gravel, the buckles clicking together in the swift motion, the chains on her baggy trousers swinging gently in the breeze, an anarchy symbol swaying back and forth, buckled onto her left side pocket. It’d be particularly interesting to see how she reacted to the move, as when thrown into a new environment she tended to try and take control, either that or she’d sit back and let someone else bother. She stood subconsciously picking at her cuticles, the black lacquered polish on her short nails slowly chipping away.

“Intriguing.” Darielle murmured monotonically as she gazed up at the sight before them. Architecturally it seemed well kept. Three large windows sat parallel to one another, along with two that sat just at the lower level, adjourned next to what was seemingly the front door, lacquered in a barn red paint, comparable to the subtler tones of a brick, framed by a solid dark lintel. In alignment to each side stood tall, crisp looking plants; small Italian cypress trees. 

Darielle’s eyes scanned the outside, taking in every singular detail. She was the analytic type, aware of her surroundings, not that she outwardly presented that, god no. She was what most would consider a lady; an elegant, gracious, compassionate young lady. She managed to have both etiquette and diplomacy, in public and private matters. Obtaining a firm hold on her emotions, conducting herself with wisdom. 

Contrary to popular belief she is humble as well as assertive, using discernment in all scenarios. With her faults she mainly would rise perseverance, in challenge, though some believe her to be arrogant. Despite all the distaste towards her, she managed to stay non-opinionated towards her peers for the most part, as the majority of her casual, political, and private evaluations are based solely on facts; she so far hand not seemed to seek the ill will of others and tries to be as modest as possible. Though coming from a high class family, most people assumed she was looking for attention at her most casual. 

However, in contrast to being tactful and strategic, she never realised the importance of not overworking yourself. She probably took that from her father, a highly educated doctor who graduated from the medical field of the most prestigious university possible, they tended to travel very little despite this. He never took on private cases. Though his wealth was through the roof, Darielle tried her best to never let money and superficialities overtake her treatment towards others, rather she decided that herself, by depicting what kind of a person someone may be. Never was she pretentious or ostentatious. 

Through the years she obtained the craft of persuasion, which came in handy nowadays. How would others describe her just by singular words, however? A few might include self controlled, poised, charming, accepting in a balanced light, and merciful. Curls of short, light brown hair hung by her jaw, framing her face, the breeze not faltering her appearance; her watery grey eyes held slight coldness, yet wonder at the same time, her pupils filled with light comparable to a small child on Christmas Day. 

Her face was lightly covered in a somewhat pale foundation, perfectly matching her complexion, light blush dabbed on her cheeks, so subtle you may have to squint to see it. Painted around her eyes was a perfect, small, sharp wing of eyeliner, slight silver incorporated into the look, plum lipstick coating her full pout. Hanging from her ears swayed long vertical diamond earrings, glistening brightly despite the dull day. 

Around her neck and wrist she wore other pieces to coordinate with them. Her light flowing white jumpsuit made her feel more than freezing in the winter weather, though she didn’t mind going to some loss for fashion. Pressing her lips together in a thin line, she adjusted her fancy white, bow brimmed hat, pulling her white fur coat more snugly over her shoulders. Clutching a small white strapless purse in her hands, she moved more into the group, a smokey, earthy smell wafting up her nostrils. Almost like musky perfume, though with an edge to it, hints of cigarette smoke seeping through the strong scent. 

“Oo, fam, we landed a good one here!” A voice exclaimed. Ben. One word to describe him? Chav; the typical teenage type. Despite people ensuring others they’re ‘extinct’, I can assure you right now. They’re not.

He was the type to roam around school corridors; a prepubescent year eleven- A small, provoking arsehole that hunts for their prey in the corridors between classrooms, or on the streets by night. The prime character for Northern Britain. A classic. He usually spends his time sneaking out at nights, stealing from people's gardens, garages, you name it. Walking about the block whilst yelling at pedestrians, speech laced with expletives. Usually him and his friends are found hanging outside McDonalds, though they cannot even afford anything off the one pound menu, tragic.

By now everyone would be certain he has an IQ of about minus one, give or take a few if they’re feeling generous. He’s practically the human equivalent of vermin. Dressed from head to toe in stolen, fake designer gear, Nike trainers, a horrifically designed bum bag, a small gold chain around his neck, a black cap on despite the dull weather, hiding the perm beneath, topped off with a general adidas jacket. 

He tends to speak without thinking, and blurts out what’s on his mind far too often, often seen staring and gawking at anyone he finds remotely attractive; the female equivalent of his subculture, that is, the most common style in school was his personal type; bleach blonde hair, patchy tan, oxidising orange foundation, additionally over the lips, wearing concealer that is three shades too light under their eyes, heavy contour smudged across their cheekbones, topped off with some chunky eyelashes. A lot of them would look great with some differing makeup that enhanced their features, or rather they look better without any makeup at all.

Blare stood leant against the lampost, arms crossed over 

“What a gentleman.” She commented sarcastically, rolling her eyes a little, looking towards him.

“Ayo, fam, I ain’t gentle!” Ben retorts back, walking up to her, shoving her a little.

“God, I didn’t mean it like that, idiot.” She mutters, coldly, flicking him on the back of the head as he turned around, causing him to yelp.

Blare chuckled, whereas Darielle barely smirked, thinking deeply.

“Now, now, children,” Susan Green, the main care worker of Ironwood spun on her heel to face the children. “You’re all quite aware we specifically chose to bring you here over splitting you up, it was a very difficult decision for us to make, so I expect your best behaviour!” She smiles, walking over to the door, her sandals crunching the gravel beneath her as she walked. 

Susan was the head caseworker of Ironwood; a traditional based reform foster house for children. By looking at her one may only assume she had been working this job since her early days, as she didn’t look a day under fifty six. Some usually found themselves describing her as a hag, a somewhat grouchy but ecstatically dramatic woman. Who could blame them for calling her such, however. After all, she divorced her husband and took everything from him. A silver chain hung from around her neck, hanging down low, a small, simple cross on the end, sitting just at the bottom of her rib cage.

She wore a red shirt and long green skirt, plastered with a detail pattern of tones of small white flowers, a grey cardigan shrugged over her shoulders. Her nails were bitten down to the quicks, wearing her sandals over her socks.

Swiftly, she moved over to the front door after forming everyone into a line.

Darielle heard Blare chuckle from in front of her.

“Wow, socks and sandals, great fashion statement.” She mocked quietly, turning back to Darielle, smirking.

Susan snapped her gaze around, clapping. “Quiet my children.” She said simply, sharply, turning back to the door, knocking on the painted wood.

Before long a young woman, maybe in her early to mid twenties, opened the door; medium length black hair reaching her shoulders, her eyes smudged in a thin coating of black eyeliner, wearing a turquoise top, topped off with a generic leather jacket, black jeans, and a plain pair of leather biker boots.

“Hi, welcome! Come inside!” She exclaims with a smile, moving aside to let them all in, watching each one of them as they entered.

They watch as she closes the door, each one of them looking around.

Ben mutters something too quiet for Darielle to hear, though by Blares reaction;

“Nice one, Ben.” Blare chuckled simply.

Darielle assumed it wasn’t anything positive.

“You must be a care worker?” Susan asks.

The woman laughs a little, “Yup, Mike is the head care worker, though. Was your trip alright?”

Darielle steps forward, holding her hand out, promptly “Darielle. The ride was quite terrible, never have I experienced such horrendous weather conditions whilst travelling before.” She says plainly, her tone almost monotonous.

“Tracy.” The young woman says slowly, after a moment of pause, before shaking her hand. Darielle simply nods, “Pleasure to meet you, Tracy.” She says plainly, before moving back. 

Tracy looks over at Blare and Ben “And you are?” She asks simply, a smile plastered across her face.

“Blare.” Blare shrugs simply, her arms crossed over.

Tracy nods, looking over at Ben.

“Wassup fam, Tracy, I’m Ben.” He nods his head.

Tracy nods slowly, her brain probably turned to mush already.

Simply, she turns to Susan.

Susan smiles, “I really better be going.” She states, glad to have dropped the kids off safely after that horrific trip. Though she hates to admit it, Darielle was definitely right. 

Tracy nods a little, “Oh, are you sure? We’ve just finished dinner, and we’ve got dessert.” She says in a sort of excited tone.

“Ooo.” Susan remarks, looking down, seemingly thinking, glancing back up at Tracy. “What is for dessert?” she inquires.

“Rice pudding.” Tracy replies simply.

Susan smiles. “Oh, I do love rice pudding…” she says slowly. 

Ben turns to Blare, muttering quietly in a whisper, “Rice Pudding? Dat stuff is minging, man.”

Blare chuckles, “Looks like maggots.” She remarks back, raising an eyebrow slightly.

A smirk crosses Ben’s lips briefly, “Aye fam ya know wassup, I hate dat stuff, hot or cold it’s nah.”

Shrugging, Blare uncrosses her arms. “I don’t mind it hot.”

Nodding slowly, Ben turns back to Susan and Tracy.

“Well feel free to stay, you’ll get to meet everyone in the kitchen at once too! Perfect time to get introduced.” Tracy smiles, leading them all through to the kitchen. 

Multiple smells of all different food scents fill the air as they walk in.

“This is where the magic happens.” comments a deep voice from the corner of the room.


	2. — Elmtree Introductions

“Wow fam, Imma eat for days here!” Ben exclaims as he looks around hastily.

Blare chuckled from beside him, crossing her arms over again; “You look like you already do.” She remarks, poking his stomach. 

A wooden birch table sat in the middle of the room, topped with cream coloured striped placemats, sat around it were a few rounded oak chairs, the backs slatted. Chairs at either end of the seating area a tad darker in tone. 

Printed across the floor was what seemed to be a Rustic Herringbone boarding, surprisingly not at all creaky to walk across. 

Adjourned to the main table was a small breakfast bar, layered in similar paint as the door, though rather more brick red in tone, the table top darker in contrast, what one could describe as a coffee colour. 

Sat upon the breakfast bar was a small fruit bowl, behind it stood a plain white fridge, scattered in magnetic alphabet letters. More brick red paint lacquered the walls around them, oak wood support and lintel outlining the doorways. 

The sink stood North to the door, bombarded with dishes, a kettle, books and other miscellaneous items. 

Glancing up you’re met with a somewhat large rustic light shade, it’s bronze tone being one thing that stood out within the room, or patterned with orange and yellow Autumn leaves, quite fitting for today.

Tracy smiles, looking over at everyone around the kitchen. “Everyone,” she begins, them all turning to look at her.

“This is Blare, Darielle, and Ben.” She says simply, gesturing to each as she spoke. 

Darielle mutters something under her breath, barely noticeable, before she steps back to a young boy in her face.

“Hi. I’m Johnny.” He says plainly.

Johnny; he was quite the arrogant one, perceiving himself to be better than others, his subtle mentions of his achievements was all the house, sometimes you’d think he was genuinely led to believe he is superior to everyone. Pride is a fine, up until a point, of course. There’s a thin line drawn. But as soon as you begin to believe you are in some way elevated to everyone else around you, you become a dickhead. 

Besides being arrogant, he was also controlling, more so to his sister; Tee.  
Dictating actions, usually controlling behaviour would be demonstrated by weak minded individuals in an unsuccessful relationship. 

Radiating a wary vibe is not something he should be inherently proud of, if he grew old remaining like this he’d find himself preying on others with good hearts and intentions, someone in which he’d deem a pathetic person. In the house he was well known for interfering with every aspect of his peers life, often caught trying to manipulate his sister, whether the situation was serious or not. 

What he wanted was to dominate your thinking. He only cares about number one, claiming your hard work as one’s own. Despite all the shit that spurts from his mouth, formal meetings in his possys seemed to contradict his own words. Sadly they never seem to get consequences.

Darielle’s eyes wavered up and down, analysing his appearance; he looked quite average, boring almost, he wore khaki shorts that reached his knees, revealing his skinny legs. Short, greasy blonde hair stood in small spikes on his head, posing the question as to if he had washed his hair in the past two weeks. His eyes were a watery blue, coordinating with the shirt he wore. 

“Looks like the son of Susan.” Blare whispered from beside Darielle. 

Smirking, Darielle turned back to Johnny momentarily. 

“Lovely to meet you Johnny.” she replies plainly, her tone low, turning to everyone else. 

In the background, a young boy moved around, noting in a small black notebook as he did so. 

Gus, like Darielle, was the analytic type; routine was everyone, most would believe he had OCD, however, contrary to that belief, he did not, rather he had Asperger's Syndrome; A neurological disorder with a variety of symptoms, ranging from tame to severe. It is a milder form of autism. 

One who has Asperger's; which is usually shortened to the acronym, AS, is likely to have difficulties in social situations, some may experience slight speech delays or problems with motoric skills, though this isn’t always the case.

Importantly, you must understand that there is a spectrum, where Gus seemed to sit in the middle of such. 

People with AS have a tendency to be loners due to communication difficulties. Troubles may occur when having to make eye contact, starting conversations and keeping them flowing, social cues, or they will obsess over a certain subject. 

Contrary to popular belief people with Asperger's Syndrome are not inherently less intelligent as stereotypes would lead one to believe.

Over from the table another boy piped up with a ‘hi’, his hair short and moderately shaven, a gold chain slung around his neck, his shirt printed with graphical words and designs, mostly relating back to rap music. 

From beside him, another boy shook his head, standing up, walking over to Darielle, staring at her momentarily before holding his hand out. 

“Liam.” He states simply.

Liam; a practical clone of Ben.  
A roadman. 

Echoing as the distant relative of the chav, such as Ben he believes he is a superior and has a tendency to be a more aggressive creature. Wearing bin bags worth half a grand, they can be found in school corridors, always skipping classes, McDonalds and any other area they believe they can gain any moderate attention. Negative or positive that is.

This fine British creation ironically does not happen to speak English very well; for example if you somehow find yourself in the vicinity of one such recherché roadman, any attempts made to communicate with them will ultimately result with a very 'sharp' response. 

His style oozed casual chav, matching alongside the other sixty five percent of his wild population. 

Britain was on a bumpy road, I tell you. 

Shaking his hand briefly, Darielle nods, “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Blare twirls one of her chains around on her trousers, looking over at the table, noticing a girl with bright blue Doc Martens and electric blue hair sitting across two chairs, her boots up on one, listening to music on her mp3, the area of her hazel eyes smudged with black eyeliner.

Liam chuckles, noticing Blare looking over at her. 

“That’s Elektra. Don’t try talking to her, she don’t like nobody.” He states simply.

Elektra was the type to be misunderstood by a lot of folk. If you didn’t get where she’s coming from you would brush it off as anger or something of the sort. Like Blare, Elektra relates back to punk rock; always standing up for what she believes is inherently and politically correct, even if that means throwing herself into the arms of danger. Though, she fell quite far into the categorisation of your non-stereotypical biker; Perhaps owns a motorbike if possible, riding it for pleasure as well as transportation. She tended to be a friendly person, though once crossed would firmly warn, and somewhat ‘persuade’ an individual not to do so again. 

However, being a biker is not a title one grants themselves. It is not part of a criminal element, and never has it openly advertised to be part of one.

She is not someone to be feared unless you cross her, though some people in the residence found it difficult to get that through their thick, slow skulls. 

She’d have earned this title herself, by how they conduct themselves and is perceived by their brethren as such. It is a title one can unfortunately lose and re-earn by chosen actions. It is the badge of honor one values.

From the slight left of Johnny came a small, mouse-like hello. 

Glancing down, Blare smiled at the girl.  
Clearly she was Johnny's sister, the resemblance was uncanny. 

“I’m Tee.” She said softly, fidgeting with her palms, looking down briefly, her dirty blonde hair matching Johnny’s; tied up in a small ponytail, her jeans a mid denim tone, her shirt a diesel blue, laced in embroidery, rainbow lettering across it, clearly hand done, but very well.

Perhaps her mother did so for her?

Tee was the quiet type; she never spoke up much, and would prefer just to sit alone and work on her crafts. Not surprisingly she was the artsy type, her aura beamed sunshine when she was in her element, radiating a branch of philosophy, dealing with the art of life, nature, others, with the creation and appreciation for true beauty. 

Watery blue eyes glanced back up at Blare, ones you could only stare at, so angelic and innocent, yet seemingly worried all at once- endless possibilities. 

Tee fidgeted with the brim of her shirt, red paint chipped on her hands and fingernails, like pen dye that stains for weeks. 

The kitchen opposed the opposite environment to Ironwood, the place laced with excitement, freedom.

There was no absence of noise or bustle; just silence, just calm. 

Rays of sunshine beamed through the windows now, burning through the dull clouding of the sky, mocking the earlier torrential storm. Wind flowed softly, seeping it’s force through the window that sat on it’s hatch, having been opened a jar.

Darielle moved over to the counter, leaning against it, coat pulled well over her shoulders despite the temperature change.

Blare moved over to Elektra without hesitation, plopping herself down in a chair. 

“Oh my god, is that a dead rat on your head?” A high pitched tone piped up quickly in the direction of Blare.

Ah, yes, Carmen; laced in pink and obsessed with fashion, it almost would give you vertigo just at the sight of her, or perhaps burn your eye sockets out from too many colour signals. 

If that were possible. 

Her personality is extremely bubbly; Overly happy, overly perky. Let’s just say she has Care Bear Blood, alright? Of course with this you can only expect she grows annoying at times, unfortunately, so much so it makes you want to smack her right in the face. 

This is not avoidable.  
That’d be illogical. 

Blare frowns, looking about in jest, before turning her gaze back in her direction. 

“Where?” She asks, in a sarcastic bemused tone, her frown only growing.

“On your head!” Carmen exclaims simply, her tone seemingly a tad agitated at her reaction. 

“His name is Remmi.” Blare smiles simply, shrugging a little, before continuing to conversate with Elektra. 

Carmen crosses her arms, snapping her head back, gazing at Darielle, dropping her fork, “Oh my god, you look really fashionable, can you be my roommate!?” She blurts out without a second breath, clearly astounded.

Darielle shrugs simply, chuckling briefly, quietly, lowly, “Now isn’t the time to get carried away, darling. I’m quite sure Tracy shall be organising anything along the lines of where accommodation lies.” She remarks plainly.

From the other side of the table, an older resident stared at Darielle, almost glaring. 

Sapphire; she was cold, but sisterly when necessary. You could probably say she was the most independent, mature person in the residence. Additionally she was motherly, to Harry in particular, a sweet young boy she was extremely protective of. Natural, light makeup coated her face, enhancing only her best features, her complexion seemingly spotless. Head to toe she was dressed in trendy gear, nothing over the top, nothing too casual. 

Just stylish. Just nice. 

“Don’t go into my room or you’ll regret it!” Sapphire spits simply, standing up, breaking the gaze, standing up, storming out.

“Sapphire!” An older woman called after her, dressed in bright colours; orange, yellow, brown, green. Her brand seemed to consist of lovely maxi dresses she wore quite well, always worn with accessories to match, without a doubt. 

She turned to Darielle, “I’m sorry about her babes, she’s a good girl, I promise you. Take a seat.” The woman pats the seat next to her.

“Oi, fam, what kind of rice pudding is dat?” Ben nods his head subtly to the chef standing at his large pot in the kitchen, moving over, leaning over the counter.

“Delectable, delicious, outstanding,” he says dramatically, excitedly, almost as dramatic as Susan. 

That, of course, was just how Duke was, an outstanding chef, mesmerised by his own dishes, passionate and generous. Despite this, as you can tell, he never made it big.

He dishes some in a bowl, placing it down. 

Ben’s lips curl up in disgust, turning to him, “Oi fam dat shit minging.” He exclaims, harshly.

As stated before, here is a prime example of Ben not thinking through his words before addressing them.

“Language!” Tracy warms him as she walks by.

Ben rolls his eyes, Duke shaking his head, “What she said.” He says plainly, nodding back to Tracy.

“Oh, and the name is Duke.” He adds with a large, welcoming smile.

Duke was a good man; fatherly, sweet, funny, most importantly a good chef, of course. 

Darielle sits down gingerly after a moment of thought, delicately crossing her legs over one another, clasping her palms, everyone seemingly in their own little worlds right now. She places her bag down with slight hesitation, adjusting her hat. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to take that coat off, babes? It’s getting pretty warm.” Gina inquired. 

Sighing, Darielle turned to her, “I’m quite alright, though thank you for your consideration.”

Chuckling, Gina smiles, “Anytime. The name’s Gina, by the way.” She adds lightly.

Nodding, Darielle smiles weakly, barely,

“Darielle, though you already know that.” She says simply, plainly, monotonously, holding out her hand.

Slowly, Gina shakes her hand, “Lovely name, babes.” She comments simply.

Out of nowhere a small boy comes unintentionally crashing into the side of Darielle, wincing. 

“Harry, be careful!” Gina remarks lightly, seeing him hug Jeff, glancing at Darielle. 

“Hi, I’m Harry.” He piped up softly, quietly, holding out Jeff, “This is Jeff. He says hi too.”

Harry was a sweet little boy, amused, entertained and engrossed by his giraffe plush; Jeff. Which, for the most part, bemused anyone new to the house. Though everyone was quite inclined to play along with the act.

Susan approached Duke, standing next to Ben, “May I ask what kind of rice pudding you’re serving, Duke?” She inquires with curiosity. God, here we go, Blare thought, glancing over.

Chuckling, Duke handed her a bowl. “Only the best you’ll ever taste.” He remarks.

Susan looks down upon it, glancing back up at him. “Creamed?” She asks slowly, a hint of curiosity seeping through her tone. 

Duke smiles at that. 

“Of course.”


End file.
